Spellfire

Shandril met his level gray gaze and slowly relaxed. She could trust this tall, battered man. At her side, Narm stirred.

“The balhiir was about me for some time. It drained both my cantrips and the sorceresses’ spells. Do you know if I will be able to work the art again?”

“Indeed, so long as the balhiir is not present. It will move to absorb unleashed magic if it can.” Even as Florin spoke, the twinkling cloud stirred about his blade, spiraled up, and left him. In a long, snakelike mist of lights, the balhiir drifted back the way the ranger had come. Florin started after it. “Follow me, if you will. If not, I’ll leave the torch.”

The two hurried after him. Shandril glanced hack once at The Shadowsil lying among the rocks, but all she could see was one foot jutting upward. As they passed through the escape hole Florin had dug, the foot seemed to move in the dancing torchlight. Shandril shivered despite herself.

The cavern where the dracolich had laired was much changed. The ceiling had broken away and fallen. The gleam of treasure was gone, covered by rubble and dust. There was a mighty rumbling and clattering of stones to their right, as the eternal dracolich rose slowly from under a castle’s worth of fallen rock. Far across the wide chamber, a woman was raising her hands in magical passes.

Bright pulses of magic burst from her hands as Narm and Shandril climbed over the rocks. They saw magic missiles streak across the chamber and strike the dracolich. The winking cloud of mist streaked down hungerly.

Rauglothgor roared anew in pain and fury. Its deep bellows echoed about the cavern. The battered dracolich rose up and hissed, “Death to you all! Drink this!”

There was a flicker of the art, but nothing else occurred. The balhiir had reached Rauglothgor. The dracolicb roared again in surprise and rage. Its great claws raked huge boulders aside as a cat scrapes loose sand. “What is this?” it raged. Its hollow neck arched, its jaws parted, and flames gouted out in a great arc.

Fire rolled out with terrifying speed and washed over the lady on the far slope. The air was filled with the stench of burning. As the flames died the lady still stood, apparently untouched, her hands moving in the casting of a spell. About her the sparkling mist danced. The balhiir had ridden the fire across the chamber.

“Jhessail,” Florin called. “A balhiir-the art is useless!”

“So I see,” Jhessail calmly replied, ignoring the roars of Rauglothgor across the cavern. “Well fought, Narm. How is your companion? She looks worth our trouble.”

Shandril found herself smiling. “Well met, Lady Jhessail.”

Jhessail came up and hugged her. “You show a good eye, Narm. Let us proceed elsewhere now, lest we not see another meal to get acquainted over.”

Florin and the elf, Merith, stood with drawn blades facing the dracolich. The mist swirled away from Jhessail and moved toward the elf s weapon.

“Your blade,” Florin warned.

“If drained, then so be it,” Merith’s merry voice came back to them. Both of the fighters charged the skeletal monster.

Again and again the elf avoided the raking bones of the dracolich, with Florin also rolling and leaping in the same dance of death.

Shandril and Narm looked about in time to see a gray streak of motion, a slim, fast man leaped down the rocks toward them.

“Beware!” Jhessail shouted.

There was a sudden flash, and a roar, and the ground leaped to meet all of them.

Someone was shaking him. “Up, Narm,” Jhessail said firmly. “We ca

“I have Shandril,” Lanseril’s voice said from somewhere. “She’s heavier than I expected.”

Narm struggled to move, to rise. A warm hand was on his shoulder. “The dracolich?”

“Rauglothgor lives.” Jhessail’s voice was rueful. “The balhiir hampers both sides in this struggle. The dracolich’s lair has traps and harbors creatures subject to its will. It has moved to block our escape to the upper caverns.”

“Are you not its match in art?” Narm asked, then he realized what he had said. “Oh, my pardon, La-”

“None needed,” Jhessail replied, guiding them around tumbled boulders. “I doubt it, here in its lair. Alone, spell to spell, perhaps. My spells are more numerous and stronger, but its are unusual and suited to defense.”

They climbed up one side of the cavern toward where Merith stood waiting. His drawn sword no longer glowed. “Well fought,” he said, kissing Jhessail.

“Where is Torm?” Narm asked, politely waiting until the kiss was done.

Merith and Jhessail exchanged glances and chuckled. “We think he used something from a little bag of tricks he carries to teleport out of here when he saw the balhiir, no doubt to save all of the magic he carries. I hope he also went to tell Elminster of what has befallen us, and we shall see some aid,” Jhessail explained.

“And if aid doesn’t come?” Narm asked.

“Then our inevitable victory will be a little harder,” Lanseril said. “If you don’t mind saying, what art do you currently command?”

Narm gri

The words had scarcely left his lips when there was a great crash and a roar of moving rock. Suddenly, the world was falling down on them again.

She hurt all over. Why had none of the tales of adventure ever mentioned the constant pain and discomfort? Shandril rolled over, slowly, feeling many aches and twinges. Stones must have fallen on her. Nothing seemed broken, thank the gods. It was dark, and it felt as if she were somewhere underground. She could tell by the cold flash of the beljurils around her that she was still in the dracolich’s grotto. Where was Narm? Then a gem flashed nearby, and she saw a hand inches from her own. Narm!

Helpless tears blinded her. The hand was cold, lifeless. Then another flash of the magical balhiir showed the hand-black hair, thick fingers. It wasn’t Narm. In relief and revulsion, she let go of the dead thing. Where to go? What to do?

There was the faintest of scraping sounds to her left. Someone was moving quietly over the stones. “Who’s that?” Shandril demanded of the darkness, feeling for her dagger. “What do you want?”

“Molesting you sounds good” a broken voice croaked at her elbow.

Shandril jumped, startled.

The voice took on a gentler, more human tone in the darkness. “Well met. I am Torm, of the Knights of Myth Dra

Shandril felt hope leap within her. She reached out only to feel rapidly receding cloth. “Thanks to you, Torm. Why would you aid a stranger?”

The answering voice was fainter as it moved away. “I have a weakness for fair ladies who reach for boot daggers and face the unknown. Now hush, and wait.”

She sat down on the most comfortable stone she could find and composed herself to wait.

After a long time there was a stirring in the darkness.

“Torm?”

“Rauglothgor’s spells search for us even now.” Torn whispered in her ear. “Your Narm lives and is unharmed. I will take you to him as soon as the dracolich settles down. For now, we must abide here.”

They both sat, and Shandril again felt the dead hand. “Torm, there’s a dead man beside me.” She took Torm’s hand and guided it down in the darkness.

“Gods!” he hissed. “It must be Lanseril. Jhessail told me it was Lanseril carrying you.”

Torm slipped around her and Shandril heard him grunt in effort. He began moving rocks. “I’ll help. If you roll the rocks to me, I can stop them here and you won’t have to carry them as far.”

“Dangerous,” she heard him hiss through set teeth.

Then, in a gem-flash, she saw another man crouching with a dagger. “An enemy!” she hissed.

Behind her there was a sudden grunt and then a gurgling moan. Torm spoke aloud, “A dragon cultist, no doubt. Now quite dead. Now, Lady, I need you to help. We must get Lanseril’s body quickly. Never mind the noise; the time for quiet is past.”